


The Name of the Rose

by altairattorney



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, Other, Plot Twists, Prequel, intimately tied to main story, non-graphic mentions of violence and mature elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not that there weren't exceptions. Things, occasionally people, to make his cold blood boil and his claws rattle in anticipation. That Heart's Day was undoubtedly going to be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Name of the Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luminare_ardua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminare_ardua/gifts).



When the sixteenth day of Sun’s Dawn came, bringing a truce to the unusually harsh beginning of the year 414, Hatches-Fast had not set foot in Black Marsh in nearly a decade.

All things considered, it was not so bad. Without counting the numerous travels he had undertaken freely, the duration of his exile amounted to less than a third of his life; and to those raised like him, according to the ancestral ways of the Saxhleel, time could only be seen as the unwinding of a long, single breath.

It was that awareness to help him carry on. He drank enough strength from his memories, with endless patience, so that not even drugs could loosen his tongue enough to make him speak of his hometown.

None of it meant he was free from suffering. There were days in which he missed Blackrose more than he enjoyed the lush beauty of Colovia. Whenever the evening fell, and a distant Imperial City caught fire in the reflections of Lake Rumare, the thought returned to him with the same resilience he had in avoiding the subject. 

It was in those moments that the original sense of loss awoke in him again. Each time, while so rare, they proved him how not even the years had softened the blow.

Truth be told, physical distance was far from the worst of his problems. He had never journeyed back to the marshes, and he always phrased it that way; it would have been too inaccurate, even for him, to say he had no longer seen them. The days in which his usual buyers had to stay undercover – which, courtesy of the city guards’ attention, happened more frequently than he would have liked – were his chance to take advantage of the precious leftover stock, not to let it spoil. That way, whenever he pleased, he could walk through them in vision.

But he was careful in all things, and drug use was the first of them. He took wicked pride in noticing how unlike his own customers he was. The soft-skinned, with those scrawny bodies of theirs, had no sense of measure – they started off with large amounts of anything, when not even his own kind could handle skooma without nurturing an addiction. In spite of all the money he made, he sometimes felt like peddling drugs to these people was a complete waste.

Hallucinations aside, Hatches-Fast had the call to his homeland running in his blood, and was hopelessly drawn to whatever reminded him of its scenery. That was the main reason why he had volunteered as keeper of the shrine. The first task he had tended to, right after his election, had been placing his bedroll at the edge of the clearing, just below the first branches of the chestnut. It was his habit to turn his head to the forest until he fell asleep; he lay there for long hours, basking in the reminiscence of inky shadows, motile trunks, and the way the glimmering mud of the swamps smelled in the night.

It was a soothing ritual, especially after the wild ceremonials in honor of their Lord. As much as he took pleasure in a cult he had first joined out of spite, he looked forward to that quiet with unchanged appreciation. And it was, more or less, the best daily conclusion he could hope for in a pretty unvaried life – which Hatches-Fast found to be, if agreeable, still strikingly monotonous in its outlandishness.

Not that there weren’t exceptions. Things, occasionally people, to make his cold blood boil and his claws rattle in anticipation. That Heart’s Day was undoubtedly going to be one of them.

The group came in sight just as he was lighting the last torch of the sunset. He offered their approaching silhouettes a wide smile. While his brothers and sisters in worship were a curiously assorted bunch for sure, Hatches-Fast had taken to waiting for their arrivals quite fondly – beyond, of course, the fact they were harbingers of fun and hearty drinking. At the very least, he would rather see them than the hairy mugs of the moon sugar importers he dealt with for a living.

As he always did before greeting them, Hatches-Fast focused, to make sure his tongue would be sharp and in good enough shape. It was a playful tradition of theirs to welcome each other in jest, or, if they were up to it, in a truly offensive fashion. He tended to this essential task by giving it all he had got.

However, greater celebrations were already in order for the night. As with everything else, he liked taking it slow. He chose to start out on a light tone, barely stepping towards the olive-skinned Altmer in the lead.

“In the name of the Rose, salutations,” he called out to him, smirking. “Do you carry the offering with you, o wise mer brother, or have you chugged it down before you could get here?”

Doubtlessly, Lindaryn was lots of fun for a High Elf. He possessed unparalleled skill in a vast array of arts that were delightful to recall – and remind him of – in the mornings after. Still, not even the depths of depravity had managed to shake off his monstrous pride, nurtured from the womb. He did not take jokes that well; even less so, the ones that poked at his performances.

Hatches-Fast chuckled at his instantaneous frown.

“Hermitage never seems to affect your nerve, reckless lizard. As if I could do my part less than perfectly. Fear not, I will get you drunk, and drunker than usual to boot.”

His hand emerged from his robes in that very moment, showing the glint of a round, well-polished bottle.

“Cyrodiilic brandy, top-notch quality,” he intoned. “If you are not pleased with it, you can shove it-”

The rest of his words were drowned in a burst of collective laughter.

In the Arcane University, Lindaryn was renowned as a powerful conjurer. Few had ever had a taste of his talents in Illusion, and certainly nobody who belonged in academic circles. He kept quiet about it for several reasons, a very good one being his inclination to smuggle fine liquors from the Archmage’s cellar.

He had conveniently placed himself in the role of beverage restocker, to the delight and approval of everyone else. On special occasions, it was his task to procure the most excellent bottles of brandy in his reach.

Sanguine was not the pickiest of the Daedra for sure. The better the offering, however, the richer the reward. It was essential to please him today.

“On Lindaryn’s side, the deed is done,” a female voice said, coming from the immediate vicinity of the statue. “It is Savlian’s turn now.”

Hatches-Fast waved happily in her direction. Brianna was a lively Nord hunter, whose two most prized possessions consisted in a lovely cottage in the Heartland and the strongest liver of the crowd. Good drinking and eating aside, she especially loved telling the story of how her inborn black hair had turned red thanks to the cult. No one really believed her, even though they had to admit her twin sister’s was still darker than ebony.

As for temperament, Brianna and Moira were uncannily alike in every way, except that the latter was inexplicably always late.

“She’s off to catch fresh food,” Brianna clarified every time, shrugging. “Don’t deny it, you’ll appreciate her roasted game tonight.”

She came back empty-handed half of the time. When it happened, she spent the rest of the evening alone, with the sole company of a generous mead tankard. Nobody asked.

Just as he wondered what Moira might be up to, Hatches-Fast noticed the other figure, who made his way towards the shrine at the same regular pace. Even within the shadow the statue threw on him, the Argonian could distinguish the burning light in his eyes before anything else.

This one acolyte, the newest in the circle, was a fresh-faced Imperial, extraordinarily eager for someone barely out of adolescence. Of the people who took up worship of Sanguine at his young age, most were driven by a banal sort of eagerness. They felt a will to live, to taste something different – a sensation, in Hatches-Fast’s long experience, as commonplace as it was inevitably bound to pass.

On the other hand, minds like his were a kind of their own. The day he had showed up among them, already fluent in Daedric and possessing basic yet polished Conjuration skills, was one to remember. In spite of his young age, he was already chosen to speak in all summonings; his voice was deep, his spirit bold, and his enterprise second to none.

Unlike the many followers Hatches-Fast had met in his path, Savlian Atrius was drawn to magic above all. And those like him, as he had witnessed firsthand several times, were the most dangerous ones.

But his innate aura of kindness, probably more due to his youthful appearance than his actual nature, forced everyone to refrain from doubting him. It was certainly a great advantage for someone in their position, the Argonian often mused.

“Brianna is quite right,” he said, shaking his loose brown hair in mock surrender. “As long as everyone agrees on it, I am ready to keep my end of the bargain.”

“He was just as ready to do the rest, I assure you,” she exclaimed, close to roaring with laughter. “He was almost as successful as me at… distracting the guards. Although, I must say, the Countess’ chambermaid was _delighted_ with my company.”

“She was really something, wasn’t she,” Savlian moaned. “You lucky Nord bastard.”

“You jealous Imperial loser,” she snickered, not without a warm touch of affection. In the light of the torches, her ginger mane danced like flames. They were getting in the mood, Hatches-Fast thought appreciatively.

Without any further hesitation, the young man took the bottle from Lindaryn’s hands. Everyone made sure to accompany him as he approached the pedestal. In the warm glow of the bonfire he had lit for his friends, Hatches-Fast grabbed the bowl he reserved for ceremonials. From it, he poured a few drops of brandy on the hands of each participant.

They licked it off their palms, and the chanting began.

“In the name of the Rose, and to our Hearts’ delight,” they recited in unison. “We kneel to the Laughter, at the top and the bottom of Life. Lord Sanguine, we call forth your aspect in Mundus. We beg you, show yourself.”

Little by little, the Argonian felt a warm contentment spread from his chest to the edges of his body. It was a state similar to intoxication, yet free from the nasty side-effects of earthly drugs. The coming of the Ecstasy proved summoning attempts to be successful, and was particularly pleasant in Heart’s Days. The date of their endeavor had not been chosen casually.

With greater intensity than he remembered, Hatches-Fast perceived a thundering voice in his head.

_Nice to hear from you again, faithful mortals. You make for a fun sight in these dreary times, I must say. I commend you._

“Lord Sanguine, to you our praise,” Savlian uttered, in an equally profound tone. “We hope our actions were worthy of your Will.”

A short instant of silence followed.

 _You,_ the Daedroth said, sounding immeasurably delighted. _You are humble, young mortal. Other Princes would like that. But I, the Lord of Jestful Disguises, like you more for other things. Dearest to Sanguine are those who drown their sad, dull selves in an ocean of merriment…_

Hatches-Fast bent his head up in curiosity. Even though Sanguine often referred to individuals, it was not common for his meanings to be obscure. However, the summoning put worshippers in a shared ring of consciousness – they were like extended dreams, as pleasant and satisfactory as liquors. And right away, although barely perceptible, a sheer wave of tension captured Savlian’s body.

He probably knew better than they did, the Argonian realized.

_To bring such liveliness to courtly Heart’s Day celebrations is no easy feat. But you do well… you elude the control of others for the sake of Pleasure… to steal the name of a childhood friend and, in disguise, enter a circle… Sanguine enjoys that. You would give up the depths of who you are for Me, for the realm of joyous perdition that is mine…_

When he turned his gaze to peek on the others’ reactions, Hatches-Fast saw Brianna and Lindaryn wink at the young man. They were, no doubt, under the assumption that their Prince’s words referred to the events of the day.

If he, in the rapture of Sanguine’s all-encompassing awareness, was suspecting Atrius of hiding something from them, the two seemed completely oblivious to his hunch. How was this happening?

He felt a sudden shock in the flow of his thoughts. A cautionary measure for sure, on Savlian’s part. He had always known it – the kid was smarter than it showed.

“I am.. we are happy to be of your service, my Lord,” Savlian spoke with calculated fervor. “In earthly life, delights, in delights, oblivion.”

 _Well said,_ Sanguine replied, his tone full of laughter. _You know how to party, young stray son of mine. You are the one to take care of the Rose. Use it well… happily… unwisely._

As his words faded, the contact broke. The circle opened their eyes in unison. Savlian was kneeling at the foot of the statue; tight in his hands, yet held with the delicate treatment great treasures deserve, was a wooden staff, beautifully carved to resemble a rose.

It looked way more impressive than the few existing depictions had ever been able to convey. Though tempered by wisdom, Hatches-Fast’s eyes shone in the budding night.

“Well?” said Brianna, always the first to speak. “What does holding the Rose feel like, little brother?”

“It is incredible,” the young Imperial replied, dumbfounded. “All this magic in a single object… Daedric artifacts truly are wondrous as they say.”

The others burst into enthusiastic applause, whistling and cheering.

Hatches-Fast wasn’t new to wielding dangerous things, and carefully controlled the young man’s expression. Soon enough, his eyes were moving frantically, burning with enthusiasm.

That wasn’t a foreign sight, either. He recognized the mark of new power, and the inability to handle it.

“Listen, friends,” Savlian exclaimed. “We have all done well. We deserve to wield the Rose together. Since he rewarded us so richly, I am positive Lord Sanguine would approve of it.”

He decided it was his cue to speak again, for the first time since the ritual.

“Don’t second-guess the Daedra, Savlian,” Hatches-Fast told him severely. “Going beyond interpretation of what they tell us is unwise. If he said so, you are the only one who deserves to wield it.”

“You think so? Why?”

“Because this is a cult, youngster,” he hissed. “Merry as it might be, it is not a game.”

Like all blossoming youths, Savlian was rash and impulsive. Disappointment and offense were already building up in his gaze. But when old age and royalty were involved, Lindaryn was the one to talk, and he intervened promptly.

“If I didn’t know better, I would be anxious to agree with the boy here. But you are right, Hatches-Fast. One doesn’t live two hundred years and study Daedric magic without testing its dangers.”

“How about trying it, then?”

The group turned to the source of the new sound. With her bow still in her hand, heavy with fresh preys, Moira had sneaked up on the group without being noticed for a single instant. She beat them all at lurking in the shadows, no arguing on that.

She was greeted with sentiment, as if the wine were already warming their souls.

“Look at this, Moira. We made it!”

“I see, little brother. I knew you would,” she said, with a knowing smile. “You should still listen to the advice of your older siblings in faith. Being careful is the first thing, even in joy. But if the Rose is as powerful as our Lord, we may as well test its might in the woods. We could camp somewhere and have a Sacred Vigil together.”

Hatches-Fast hummed in approval. He was far from being the only one. Their group had not held a Sacred Vigil in almost three months, and the lack of mutual pleasure was starting to be felt in their relationships.

And maybe, a mischievous part of his mind whispered, he could once more try to get Lindaryn involved in some _interesting_ things –

“That’s enough,” the Altmer barked in his direction.

“Enough of what?”

“I know what you are thinking when you look at me that way,” he said with disgust. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Whatever you say.”

Brianna shot them an amused glance, but gestured to cut it short. If she urged them to make their banter quick, it meant the matter at hand was pressing.

“If you are quite done with your mating rituals,” she snickered, “maybe we can follow my sister’s advice. Are your liquors in order, everyone? Ready to leave?”

The enthusiastic holler she got in response made several fawns run miles away in terror.

“We may walk to Elenglynn,” Hatches-Fast suggested. “Close enough to take it lightly, isolated enough not to be disturbed. And hopefully… yes, Brianna?”

“I paid Elenglynn a vist not so long ago,” she intervened. “Cleared it from the scum that inhabited it from start to finish, That could be arranged.”

As the group moved to the woods, in a cloud of enthusiastic chatter, Hatches-Fast passed by his bedroll, to pick up a small leather package he kept for the rarest occasions.

When they moved the first steps on the unmarked path to the ruins, Masser already glimmered through the branches. It shone benevolently on the hoods, and played games of light on Lindaryn’s yellow hair.

He clutched the bag, feeling its precious glass contents.

Oh, they would have fun that night.

*

The bunch of Sanguine worshippers who arrived to Elenglynn one hour later felt plain omnipotent. If the Rose in their grasp did the most, the three bottles of Cyrodiilic brandy gone on the way generously helped. Even Hatches-Fast, with his grip on reality loosening a bit, had agreed to try it in the end – and it was true.

The bound Daedra made short work of even the fiercest creatures of the woods. Who would dare take them on, with such an artifact?

“Let’s camp here, pretty faces,” Lindaryn bellowed, armed with a random Illusion scroll and a flask he had already emptied several times. He was always the first to get this wasted. That was what Hatches-Fast liked the most about him – for the stuck-up High Elf he pretended to be, it took nothing to turn him into a whiny, manipulable creature.

Yes, he was quite hilarious. And the others were just as delightful.

“L-look at him go,” Hatches-Fast laughed, pointing at him with a hand that was, in fact, shakier than usual. Strange. “The pretty elven face is far gone.”

“You are far gone as well, lizard,” Brianna laughed. “You are not the only one to have visited Bravil’s skooma hall, you know. You look no better than its guests.”

And in fact, to be completely honest, it was his first time losing count of the shots. Or, at least, doing so before the end of the night. The world seemed to melt in a vague flurry of colours and sounds and bodies, which he could no longer categorize as he was used to doing.

It wasn’t long before he completely lost control.

He had never tried skooma, out of caution, but this had to be what it felt like. Nice to know large amounts of mixed liquors could reach the same result, he confusedly noted. He felt stronger than a mountain lion, yet he could barely move two steps – and he fell in open arms, and kissed soft, reddish skin, lit by the bonfire…

Somewhere in between, as the rush of laughter, embraces and delicious roasted meat toned down in sleepiness, he grew aware of the solid shape in his pocket. The leather package, with its contents still intact, pressed against him and another warm body.

He extracted it, and fiddled with the laces.

“May I o-ov-offer you some,” he stuttered, “some… quality Argonian Bloon-Bloodwine. Best of my stock. Try to tell me Sah… Saxhleel aren’t good… drinkers. Test for yourself.”

“You bet,” Lindaryn slurred in his ear. “You are junk. Lemme prove it.”

The precious bottles were split, one each. He was still leaning in someone’s arms when the sweet taste graced his lips.

A tad too sweet, actually. A tad tougher.

Like a resin with a weird flavor of honey.

The difference of the sensation hit him like a violent slap in the face. Hatches-Fast’s mind was too clouded to recognize it right away. However, as the new substance kicked in, he suddenly felt a lot sober.

It was a familiar condition for sure.

Well, it wasn’t sobriety. Just a different kind of intoxication. But the world, muffled and bright as it looked, came back around him once again, and his tongue felt no longer lethargic.

It was, to be more precise, controlled by something else. He spoke, as if in a dream.

“Hey… Martin. What is your true name?”

The Imperial had not drunk yet. His hand, raised in the imminent gesture, nearly dropped the flask.

He froze.

“Wait a minute, now,” he articulated, at the best of his possibilities. “Where did you hear  _that_?”

“I said… what is your true name,” Hatches-Fast repeated, slow but steady. “You should listen carefully. Sanguine wasn’t… talking about the mission. You lie to us… concealing your true name. What.. what are you running from?”

_Running from a life of boredom? Running from fate?_

“I… really didn’t expect you to use your real name, either,” Savlian said, defensive. “Aren’t you an Argonian of Black Marsh? And… aren’t we all… Daedra worshippers? It is wise to-”

“I don’t trust you.” Hatches-Fast swallowed. “At all.”

_His name his bound to danger. Don’t forget…_

“You have no reason to distrust me,” the young man replied. “I am only… protecting myself. Then again, don’t you know already? If anyone here… has any reason to distrust you, it is _me_. Yes, my true name is Martin. How do _you_ know that?”

_Not his name. Not his name. Neither can guess yet…_

“No… no, it’s not.”

_… a man who conceals his name and his life, a forlorn father… left behind long ago, to tend to his corn fields alone… he who was abandoned first, and does not know…_

“I do not understand, Hatches-Fast,” Martin continued, mortified. He, too, had sobered up quickly. “You remain the calmest and wisest among us, always. How do you-”

_… the things that he does, so do you, to safely travel through life. But at birth you were named Thtithil, the Egg, for the shamans of Blackrose had foreseen your future through us…_

“Martin,” he barked. “Brothers. Give me back those things. _Now!_ ”

Nobody except the Imperial complied.

_… the cracks in the shell will reveal gold…_

He tore the flask from Lindaryn’s hand, which was, apparently, in his immediate vicinity. Hatches-Fast was not mistaken about the sweet taste. As soon as his nostrils got closer to the bottle neck, he recognized the distracting aroma of Hist sap.

The world slowed down.

In his long vagrancy throughout Cyrodiil, Hatches-Fast had been exposed to so much – and with so many resources to counter it – that he had completely forgotten what the abandon of fear felt like. In a split second, what the years had erased came rushing back. The memories of his first steps in the woods, when his scales seemed to give out under the weight of terror, awoke from a sleep he had believed to be timeless.

To the Saxhleel, Hist sap was a blessing. A sacred resource, to face a perilous future with more ease. But to others –

Just in front of him, across the bonfire, Brianna eyed the company with a low, threatening growl. At his feet, Lindaryn had conjuration spirals glowing in his hands.

“Xhuth! Don’t drink any more! _Stop that_!”

Still, he knew better than anyone. It was too late for everything – even for him to act.

Hatches-Fast had one single alternative to dying, and that was the most lucid burst of awareness to ever dawn upon him. In all haste, with his innate skill, he climbed the tall tree they had camped under, trying his best to conceal his verdant skin in the foliage.

Just below, a violent burst of magic swamped the forest. They were already fighting.

How had he lost his grip on the drugs so shamefully?

The young Imperial still held the flask, paralyzed with fright.

“Run away, Martin,” Hatches-Fast yelled. “You have no hope to survive. _Run away_!”

“I can’t!” he cried. “I can’t let this happen –”

“RUN!”

With a yelp of despair, Moira fell to the ground, stabbed in the chest by her own sister’s dagger.

Hatches-Fast barely found the time to mourn her. The acute stage of the Hist stupor was coming upon him. Quivering from head to toe, he clung to the branch, and prayed to the whirlwind of Sithis’ Wrath to come out of this as unscathed as possible.

The last distinct image reality showed him, as the buzz of the Trees filled his mind with foresight, was the way Martin wielded the Rose, whispering incantations to make his enemies vulnerable.

The images began.

_…you see the weakened Empire bent to its knees… the Pakseech of the Heartlands slain, with great despair, and the surfaced earth all plunging into chaos…_

– he sees the fight unravel, half truth half mirage, and the flow of the deaths present and future –

… _powers contained break free, when the shield is torn apart… the winds of Padomay sweep the land, in terror, in fire…_

“Who dares attack the necromancers of Elenglynn? You fools! You will pay!”

_…and brother turns against brother, county against county… in peril they are divided, and the Lord of Destruction, one of the Strong Princes, will move the lament of war to the Arena._

– waves of conjured Dremora, with their axes raised, pour on his friends. The nocturnal sky seems on fire in the glow of their maces. Far away, from his dreamlike shelter, he catches the glimpse of an Altmer severed head as it rolls by. The necromancers’ fingers, alight with magic, bend like salamandrine openings to hell –

_…and much greater, many times multiplied, the similar tragedy unfolds… the gates between two worlds are torn, hundreds fall… innocent blood is shed, for oversights and violence alike… from the mouth of Oblivion._

– he floats among the lifeless bodies, lulled by the weeping of a young man and the growl of his seventh daedroth, with a clash of xivilai and clannfear, whose claws tear and consume dead flesh –

_…you flee, far away from violence, to prevent it… you journey to rotting Lilmoth, lost gem of the great South… an army that rises against the terror of Nirn itself, coming out victorious… and the Saxhleel trust your name…_

“One more! Where are my soul gems? Just _one more_!”

_…for the knowledge echoes through us, to reach Lukiul and natives alike… the chains that weigh on your people, broken… a call of unity echoes in the marshes._

– a lament rises with an echo of guilt. The only one left, the one besides him. Dozens have fallen –

_It is your name, their name. The An-Xileel._

“They… slaughtered my friends. I slaughtered my friends. This staff betrayed me!”

_And two saviors still live, near the lone Ayleid ruins. You are one of them._

*

By the time Hatches-Fast raised eyelids heavier than lead, the night was about to end. His grip on the branch had almost waned. He was this close to falling.

As far as he could see, blood soaked the ground beneath him.

“Savlian,” he called faintly, in vain. “Savlian, where are you? Did you survive – you at least?”

He did not have the heart to look into the corpses’ eyes. The stench was terrible. He crawled several feet away, vomited, then cried his soul out.

He only found the strength to get on his feet when the sun was up. Even though he felt colder than the winter, its light was already warming the Colovian hills. He gazed at the path he had come from, and knew, in a single instant, that he would never turn back.

“My name is Thtithil, son of the Murkwood swamps,” he declared, unheard by anyone in the icy morning breeze. “I have somewhere I must return to.”

He began walking south, the wind his only companion. Just out of the woods, with whatever remained of his belongings, he would head to the Skingrad stables, hoping for a horse to lend him its swift legs.

And though the Hist stupor was long gone, if he hearkened to the whistling of the trees, he could hear words of fate in a different voice.

_These are the closing days of the Third Era…_

*

In the first rays of dawn, battered and broken, a young man called Martin crossed the gates of his hometown in complete silence.

The Daedric staff, hard-earned reward for his endeavors, lay at the foot of the shrine, broken in half by magic. It was now but an empty wooden shell, devoid of a power which, he hoped, would be shut out of Nirn for a long time.

In his foolishness, he had at least studied how to banish sources of danger.

But that was the past, he reminded himself, despite the fact his eyes were still teary. That was long gone, far from the place he wanted to inhabit.

His father slept out of the city walls, trapped by the farm in which he had poured his entire life. Martin did not want to stop by, not yet. There would be time later – for apologies, forgiveness, for tales of changes and secrets he couldn’t disclose.

There would be time for his wounds to heal. If they ever would.

He crossed the entrance to the Chapel of Akatosh, devastatingly alone. The darkness of its naves, once so oppressive, made for a refreshing shelter to his torn soul.

There, from the stone basin, he collected water to wash the blood from his hands. That act in itself felt like a new beginning.

If his life had been a directionless cycle of boredom and excitement, Martin knew, at long last, exactly what he wanted. He walked the carpet in the central hallway with solemnity, wishing to repeat the gesture time and time again.

With the same, yet new, transport of the night before, he fell to his knees and joined his hands.

“Great father Akatosh, breath and essence of us all,” he prayed. “If in the whole that flows through you, somewhere, there is a purpose to my existence, may you give me the strength to find it, and to live with what I have done for the rest of my days.”

The sun chose that moment to pierce the stained glass from the east, throwing its first beam of light on the altar. The red velvet on the stone shimmered with a warm, fiery glow.

For the first of two times in his life, Martin’s ears opened on the infinite. To them, only heard by them, came a voice.

 _Rejoice,_ it whispered. _Through faith, thine afflictions shalt be banished._

**Author's Note:**

> Dear luminare_ardua,
> 
> I am not new to this section, and the concept behind this story is not new to my mind. I found your familiar name in the list of Yuletide letters by pure chance; your prompts were so delightful, I couldn't resist putting an old idea into practice and giving you a (hopefully) nice treat.  
> The last months of TES lore research did wonders for me. I am, too, an enthusiast of most Kirkbridian lore, while there are things I disagree with. I had very little time, most of which was spent in research and planning; and while I did the impossible not to make it rushed, finishing it on time for Yuletide treats was a Master level quest. I do hope I did not mess it up.
> 
> The Argonian words are mostly stolen from the novel, and can be found on the Jel page of UESP. Rough translations: pakseech = leader, lukiul = Argonians who are integrated in the Empire, xhuth = fuck.
> 
> Best wishes, and may the Divines walk with you in the endless reading of this gift!


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